The Winter Demon
by IapologiseInAdvance
Summary: What if Jack had his memories back from the start and went straight back home after waking up? What if he rejected his new identity? Thanks to Macetree for helping me figure out this whole uploading thing! My first fic! I hate myself!


The first thing he felt was ice. It was all encompassing, breath taking, and awful. He couldn't tell if it was cold or burning. All his air was knocked out of his lungs as he heard the crack! And he plunged into the black depths of the pond. He vaguely heard his sister yell, "Jack!" from the corner of his consciousness but at that point, he couldn't feel his limbs even if he wanted to move them. The cold was feeling… nice now, like a soft blanket. As the light faded from his eyes, his surroundings started feeling warmer until it was like he was by the fire with his mom, dad, and sister Emma…

And then it was bright. Unexplainably he felt himself being lifted towards the light, as if he was being reeled up by the clasp of his cloak. Oh, he thought, I must be going to heaven. He barely noticed the ice parting to let him through because all of a sudden, he heard a low voice say "you are Jack Frost, the spirit of winter." The words seemed to come from within his mind more than anywhere else, and as he levitated above the pond for a second, he wondered vaguely at that. Then gently, he was dropped to his feet where he staggered, like a newborn deer, a couple of steps. Unbeknownst to him, there appeared fernlike tendrils of foot shaped frost on the ice behind him.

It was obviously the dead of winter, but he still felt that soft warmth that was the last thing he remembered before he… what happened? Something was clearly wrong here, but he couldn't put his finger on what exactly other that he couldn't remember anything. He noticed a shape on the ground beside him, angular except for the bent top. Ah yes, he thought as he reached for it, that's the stick I used to save… to save… and with a resounding flash it all came back to him. Trying to tell Emma it wasn't a trick this time, playing that final game of hopscotch, the dizzying relief when he knew it was over, that she was safe, but then the sudden cold, the shock, the pain, and finally, the numb warmness. Jackson Overland, he thought. My name's Jackson Overland. He was clutching the staff with white knuckles when he returned to his senses. He didn't know if he'd been standing there for a second, an hour, or a day, but all he knew for sure is that he had to get back home, to make sure everyone knew he was OK.

He staggered towards the woods, using his staff as a crutch, but balance quickly returned to him, and before he knew it, he was running. Maybe running a bit too fast, leaping a bit too high, as if something was lifting him from behind, but he put that thought at the back of his mind, along with thoughts of how his bare feet should be frozen already, that his clothes were completely covered in frost, or how he was underwater long enough for the ice to reform. He didn't have time to think about that- Emma and his parents were probably sick with worry! Soon- too soon, he must have been going pretty fast- he saw the cheery lights of his village through the trees. He saw his home nestled in the forest and immediately beelined towards it, stopping abruptly by the door, the wind behind his back making his cloak flap around him wildly. Despite his urgency, he didn't want to needlessly wake anyone up, so he peered through the window. There he saw a scene he didn't want to make sense of. Emma was crouched by the hearth shuddering into Ma's shoulder, just whimpering one syllable over and over, "Jack…"

"Jack…"

He hesitated for a second.

Something was awfully horribly wrong.

His hand subconsciously went for the handle, and only after he heard the crackling did he look down. The first thing he noticed was that his hand looked weird: it was his, but it was so blueish and pale. Then he realized it was the source of that crackling: a swirl of frost inexplicably started to envelop the iron handle, blooming from the fingertip barely brushing the metal. He jerked his hand back like it was shocked. Evidently Emma and Ma heard the sound too because hitched breath sounded from within and Jack snapped his head back to the window at the sound. Ma was staring quizzically at the frost that had suddenly enveloped the inside portion of the handle.

Did I do that?

Incredulously, he looked back down at the handle and saw his reflection in the polished iron, despite the frost. That didn't look like his reflection. He thought, it must be a trick, that the frost just messed it up. He quickly looked back into the smooth glass window by the door, and immediately wished he hadn't. He staggered back two barefooted steps then rushed back in horror, tripping and falling face to face with himself. There was a stranger in his reflection. Jackson Overland's hair was a warm brown, the same colour as his eyes! Not what he saw: a ghostly pale kid with hair as white as snow and icy blue eyes. He remembered the voice, "you are Jack Frost, the spirit of winter." Jack shook his head as if dislodging the thought and reluctantly looked at his reflection again. It was like someone had taken all the colour from his appearance and sucked it away. This is impossible, he thought as the frost spread from his hands on either side of the windowsill. This is wrong, he thought as the frost grew to obscure his face. Ma'll know what to do.

He turned back to the door, grabbed the handle and flung it open, to Emma and Ma's shock. The wind whistled through, eddying and returning to the door like it wanted to push Jack out. He took no heed as he shakily walked towards the two of them in front of the hearth, leaving behind icy footprints behind and starbursts from where his staff touched. As he walked by the candles, they flickered out due to the cold and left the room slowly consumed by darkness as he approached the two. Noticing this as he progressed only made Jack even more afraid and the windows started collecting frost as the temperature in the room dipped and the wind became more urgent.

"Ma? Emma?" he murmured. Eventually, the only light in the room was the flickering hearth kicking up monstrous shadows. He was now right in front of Emma and his mom, their shadows dancing as the hearth flickered out from the chill he radiated. The two of them were clutching each other protectively and shivering, but Jack wasn't sure if that was just because of the chill. Ma's eyes were darting everywhere trying to find the danger, while Emma's wide eyes were locked on the two frosty footprints that stopped inches in front of them. Tears were welling up at the corner of her eyes, she was scarcely breathing and she didn't dare move an inch. Somewhere else, Pitch Black felt more corporeal than he had in years.

"Ma? Emma? Hey you don't have to be afraid… Where's Da? He'll want to know I'm ok- woah!"

He was cut off by his mom suddenly lunging forward. Through him. All of a sudden he was crashing into the lake again, all that shock and cold replacing the numb warmth that he'd been feeling ever since he'd died. "No, no, no," he whimpered

"You won't get Emma!" His mom yelled at the same time. "You're not welcome in this house, demon! Pa, help!"

The feeling was gone as soon as his mom was on the other side, but at the word demon, the effect on Jack was the same.

"Demon?" he whispered, stricken.

The wind was howling now, insistent, blowing the herbs drying on the mantle all over the place and making Emma whimper. The door was being blown into the wall, slam! Slam! Slam! Desperately, Jack crouched down to her.

"I'm not a demon Emma, I'm just your brother Jack! Can't you see me? Emma please!"

He reached out to touch her but suddenly the wind picked up in a great scoop and flung Jack sprawling onto his back near the door. He tried to stand up but only proceeded to get summersaulted backwards by the wind. He crouched on the ground and screamed, "Can't you see me?!" but got flung out the door by the wind before he could say any more.

He didn't get an answer. The last thing he saw as he was flung out into the clouds above them was his terrified mom carrying a screaming Emma upstairs. Then the door slammed shut and blocked his view. He went limp in the wind and squeezed his eyes shut, but not before uncontrollable sobs escaped him. He curled up into a ball, clutched his staff close to his chest as if it would give him and extra warmth, and was flung into a snowbank about a mile away.

The storm that night was the worst one they'd seen in decades.


End file.
